The Watcher
by JessicaJ
Summary: An outcast seeking refuge in a broken city, Vincent finds Tifa, a girl assumed to be dead, by Cloud's reckoning. So resolute and strong, yet she fears she is tainted beyond repair, too tarnished to see the sun again. Could he convince her to leave this broken place behind? Was he ready to reveal to her the truth about himself?
1. Security Wanted

The Watcher

(a working title)

By JessicaJ

_Cloud and the notorious members of Avalanche have saved the world from the threat of the super-being Sephiroth, and the corrupt weapons corporation Shi-nRa. All is not well though- meteor left behind a broken city, a city the struggles still to find its footing in the aftermath. The super company has fallen, and in a world without energy the failing economy leaves thousands starving, struggling to survive in a broken world, trying to define themselves, trying to regain their breath after resurfacing._

_One woman among millions is doing just that, unaware that her story is known to one man; An outcast even among his own comrades, he struggles to find a place in the world just like so many others around him. He doesn't know why he sought her out, a bright burning soul in the gloom of the Midgar slums, but he hopes to find out._

-1. Security Wanted-

Midgar. What a putrid, godforsaken city. Yet here I was, tramping the streets looking every bit like any other inhabitant infesting its streets, dressed in black, or grey, stinking of pollution, alcohol, and sometimes vomit, and wearing an expression that said one thing. There was no hope, here.

The looks I saw in people's eyes; they all had the same dull gleam, the same vacancy stared back at me in every face, young or old, man or woman- Midgar was consuming them, slowly, but surely, whether by drink, drugs, sex or gambling… all could be found here, in the slums, for a cheap price. Nobody here had much money. Not least the people who needed in the most.

My boots thudded on uneven paving stones, the occasional step punctuated by the crunch of broken glass underfoot. The streets were littered with the stuff, glinting in the harsh glare of the streetlights and neon signs. I supposed it was the urban, post-apocalyptic equivalent of flowers, these days.

I rounded the corner onto yet another street, a busier hub than most, aware of people yelling, calling to one another. Some voices sounded angry and aggressive, others somewhat jubilant, sounding from within a bar or another such establishment that thrived in these parts. I didn't even want to think about the brothels.

My purpose here was not necessarily as unpleasant as had been upon previous visits I had made over the years. When I was younger I never really ventured here for my pleasure. It was all 'business'. Today found me on different circumstances. I was looking for work. Not necessarily because I needed it, or even want it. Money had never mattered to me. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a means to achieve an end. No; I wanted work because I wanted something that would stop me thinking, something to occupy my hands and busy my mind.

I passed through steaming alleys and bustling streets, ghostly roads and corners dogged by rough-looking youths, though none gave me any trouble. Perhaps I looked intimidating enough to warrant them giving me the benefit of the doubt; and as I passed a window and caught sight of myself, I couldn't blame them.

After a short walk, I reached my destination. In my pocket, the paper ad crinkled in my fist, thrust in there to keep warm. The establishment wasn't quite what I had been expecting it to be like; my first impression was good—not many owners of bars around these parts kept the outside clean, nor had I seen a building less garish. It looked well-tended and tasteful, as though it made enough money to pay for itself. Though a place making a lot of money wasn't necessarily a good sign, I reminded myself as I stepped inside, conscious of the eyes of patrons burning into me. It only raised questions in the end as to how they got it.

Dismissing the stares, I swept my gaze across the bar. That seemed enough to deter them from staring at least, and the comfortable babble of chatter soon resumed. Stares, I was used to.

There were two barmaids that I could see, both reasonably pretty for Midgar women. I wondered if barmaids were really all they were. It would certainly explain the success of such a place, were that indeed the case. Pretty girls were only one vice in a city of vices. The flyer in my pocket crinkling again, reminding me of my purpose for being here in the first place, I stepped forwards toward the bar.

The girl behind it couldn't have been much older than twenty, barely out of her teens, long red hair bobbing in its ponytail as she turned her head to address me. "What can I get you?" She was resting on one elbow atop the bar, chewing gum incessantly as she waited for my response. "I said what can I get you, sir?" She repeated herself, barely giving me enough time to consider her offer. In her defence, I had not exactly made eye contact, instead choosing to examine the shelves behind her. It was a well stocked bar in any case.

"I'm not here to drink." I say, placing my palms firmly down on the bar top. She cocks a brow, eyebrow piercing catching the light.

"Well this is a bar. If you ain't gunna drink, then feel free to take a seat. But if it gets busy, I'll have to ask you to leave in favour of a paying customer. Boss won't appreciate loiterers." The second barmaid, a blonde girl who was currently filling the fridges with bottles of beer scrambled to her feet, glanced staring at me curiously.

I profile them in my mind; an old habit that I never quite shook. They weren't prostitutes, I decided. In fact, their clothing was altogether decent. They both wore what appeared to be the bars uniform, a white t-shirt with a logo of a black heart with '7th' written through it in silver stitching, along with either denim shorts, or a fitted knee-length skirt. From the redhead's dialect, I decide that she isn't, or perhaps had not always been a city girl. Her swagger and attitude appear somewhat learned. Their parents were probably all dead, a reason to drive grief-stricken youngsters looking for success to the city. A place where they would never find it for sure- instead swallowed up by the hell-hole of empty promises, filth and greed. Just like the rest of us.

"I'm here about the job." I tell her after a moment, aware that at my words the blond girl seems to scrutinise me further. The redhead ceases chewing her gum for a moment, swilling it around in her mouth as she considers me.

"TIFA?" She yells suddenly, angling her head behind her, never taking her hazel eyes away from my face. I cringe inwardly, aware that several of the patrons have also returned their attention to me. In the sudden lull, I pick out the sound of a chair scraping back, footsteps, and then a door opening to the left of the bar, down a small side corridor which also lead to the washrooms.

"What's up, Natasha?" From my vantage point, I could not see the owner of the voice, another woman. 'Tifa's 7th Heaven' had been in my mind at least, some sort of high-end brothel. I was quite surprised now that I was here to find that it indeed was not. In fact, it appeared to be quite a respectable business, from what I had seen so far. None of the patrons were drunk yet, at the reasonable time of 1900 hours. Most of the people on the streets were, and perhaps had been all day.

"There's some guy here about the security job you sent flyers out for." The girl named Natasha answered over her shoulder. The blonde's curiosity seemed insatiable, and I resisted the urge to glare at her, instead focussing my attentions on the whiskey bottles lined up on the top shelf. Again, I appreciated the fine selection.

"Right, ah… get the man a drink, and send him through. It's on the house." The door was pulled partially shut, the owner of the voice retreating back into what must be her office. Natasha grins at me, her disposition somewhat warmer.

"What'll you have?"

"Coffee. Black… If it's not too much trouble." Natasha raises her perfectly plucked brows again.

"Sure, if you don't mind waiting. An' it's from the kitchen upstairs, mind."

"That will suffice, thank you." I give a rigid nod, stepping around the bar towards the door that she is now ushering me towards. Steeling myself, I tap upon the doorframe politely, even though the door is stood partially ajar, and I wait.

The bar's owner glanced up at the sound of a knock at her door. Brow's furrowed a little at the ledger she had previously been poring over, she calls "Come in!" glancing up to behold the man who enters the door before her.

Pale; so pale, and yet his hair is shockingly dark, tumbling way past his shoulders in uneven lengths, haphazardly tied back by some kind of cord. He closes the door softly behind him, and turns to face her. Firstly, she notes his stature. He could be considered neither lank, not quite well-built, yet she can tell from his posture that there is a quiet strength to him. He keeps his shoulders straight and his spine tall, his arms controlled at his sides. Secondly, she notices his eyes as the catch the light. Ruby red; an achingly beautiful colour that neither wine nor stone could hope to recreate.

Remembering herself, she stands, hand outstretched. "Welcome, please take a seat." His hesitant hand is cool between her fingers momentarily. She notes that his left hand is gloved, where his right was not. "I'm Tifa, I own this place. I'm assuming you are here about the post for security I advertised?" At his curt nod, she smiles.

He sits at her invitation, looking all together out of place in the old, yet comfortable easy chair set across from her desk. She allows him to remain in silence, content to examine her potential employee. "So you're name is…?"

"Vincent." He replies, his voice deep and quiet. She almost shuddered involuntarily.

She lets the silence pass for a few moments, returning his gaze, equally unwavering. "I have had many other applicants who would dwarf you," she says. "Why should I choose you?"

He says nothing, fingers splayed neatly on his knees. Staring at a point over her head, he seems to consider something carefully before standing rather suddenly, reaching beneath the folds of his coat and producing a knife. He throws it expertly, point first. She ducked instinctively, though she can hear the quiet singing of the metal, following the delicate thud as it embedded itself in the wall. Turning, she notes that knife quivers in the corkboard where she pins up pictures of dangerous men she does not allow within her bar. The blade is perfectly placed between the eyes of a certain Don Corneo. Not that she was likely to forget that fat face, mind.

The chair creaks a little as it accepts the return of his weight. Her expression trained to stay perfectly blank, she stands and tugs the knife out of her cork board. It is a good weight in her hand, cool and steady.

Smiling softly, she turns the knife in her hand, angles her wrist and flicks firmly. The blade sings as it spins through the air, coming to quiver point first in the back of the door, just above the handle. "Close the door on your way out, please."

The man regards her quietly from behind dark lashes, before standing.

"Tell me. Is that knife yours, or did you have to kill a Turk to get it?"

He stops, halfway to the door, only turning his face part way toward her. She notes his fist quivers slightly as it clenches. "Will my answer in any way alter your decision?"

"I don't believe I revealed to you my decision."

His frown comes into full fruition as he takes a half step around. "You asked me to leave."

"But I didn't give you my decision. Nor did you give me an answer: why should I choose you? Why do you want to spend your time protecting six women?"

"Because I have to do _something_." His reply is more honest than any she was expecting.

"About what?" She walks around her desk to perch on the edge of it, arms folded across her chest. She wore the same t-shirt as the other girls, underneath a chequered shirt.

"I need to do something. Anything."

Now she was totally lost. "Do you need money? Because there are easier ways to get money here, and faster. Certainly more than I will be paying you."

"I…" His reserve seemed to be faltering, at last. "I need a job, I don't care about the money. I just want something to occupy my time. Somewhere I am needed. Is that a good enough reason for you, or should I take my services elsewhere?"

They stare at each other for a while, the sounds from the bar permeating the thin walls. They hear Natasha's voice, male laughter, and the chink of glassware. She runs her tongue over her lip, before capturing it between her teeth. "I pay you 200 a night, and if there is any trouble that you can diffuse, you get a bonus. I need you 5 nights a week. Do you agree to these terms?" He gives a curt nod. "Be here this time tomorrow, Vincent."

He nods again, this time somewhat more respectfully, though he offers her no thanks. No doubt she had irritated him somehow in her grilling, so she does not begrudge him. Tugging his knife free, he marches out of the door, just as Natasha got to it, a cup of coffee in her hand.

"Aw man, you ain't even going to drink this?" She exclaimed to his retreating back, turning to Tifa after getting no response with a bemused expression on her face. "What a strange man! Well, I guess it doesn't matter."

Tifa sighed, walking back around her desk to resume her seat. "He'll be here tomorrow."

"What? You hired him?" The redhead's indignance irks her.

"You don't like it?"

"Well it's just… He seemed a bit weird-" The girl shrugged, suddenly noticing the tear in the mug shot board behind Tifa. "-Like some kind of dark horse- Or masochist, at best! He might be a psycho killer!"

Tifa chuckled dryly. "I don't think so- At least to the last two things. I just… I don't know. I liked him. I felt like he needed this, as much as we needed someone like him."

"If you say so. Well, those pints ain't gunna pour themselves. I'd better get back out there. Hey, you drink black coffee, right? You may as well have this." Natasha sets down the untouched mug of black coffee before returning to the bar, leaving Tifa alone with her thoughts.

There was something odd about Vincent alright, but she'd had a feeling about him. Quiet and no doubt skilful, though she could tell he had a chip on his shoulder, or perhaps even several. That came as not much of a surprise though—this was the slums after all. If money wasn't as issue, she had to question why he had come to Midgar of all godforsaken places on this earth looking for something, some kind of redemption maybe.

She was curious about the knife, too; a Standard issue Turk's knife. She'd had enough encounters with the navy-uniforms to recognise one. It had seemed to strike some kind of fear or anger into him at the mention of it—an heirloom of a fallen comrade or family member, perhaps? That would explain his apparent desire to distract himself. Midgar was a Shin-Ra city, after all. Most people had to have been an employee, or related to one at some point.

Well, whatever it was, she was damn intrigued by it all, and if her curious nature on top of Natasha's inability to intercept the pathway between her thoughts and her mouth didn't drive him away, she mind just get to know more, in time.

**A/N: I have a direction that I was to go with this. As you will soon be able to tell, Tifa and Vincent have never met, though in fact no events of the game have changed save for that, which should suggest some things to you, things which will be divulged later. I hope you enjoy this, something new from me after a while at least!**


	2. Probation Period

_Time stood still, as the Earth held its last breath. I had not expected to survive. Cloud had told us not to trust in hope, and for once I agreed with the young fool. Hope was fragile. Hope was misleading. It was a fine silver thread that you thought could take your weight, only to snap and let you fall down, down, down…_

_The light was so bright it burned through my eyelids, and I saw red. Around me, all seemed deafeningly silent. We were burning painlessly alive. Not a bad way to go. But then the light faded. _

_And I was still here._

-2. Probation Period-

I had gotten the job inside of ten minutes. Still surprised, I barely concentrated on where I was walking, my brain on auto-pilot to take me back to the hotel I was staying in. I sighed with something akin to relief as I entered into my grubby room, pleased at least to see that nothing seemed to have been touched in my relatively short absence. Starting from tomorrow, I would have my evenings occupied, five nights out of seven at least. I looked forward to the distraction.

It had only been a few short months since meteor fell; since it was consumed by a blinding green-white light, and instead it rained down in a million pieces, all still aglow with fire and light. The Ancient, Aeris, had done it. She had summoned the Lifestream and she had awakened the planet, bidding it to defend itself upon its final hour of need.

Such a foolishly stubborn heroine she was. I admired her selflessness. I envied her charisma, and the way she was loved by all, even though she and I were both…. Different. Where she was revered, I was feared.

Heaving a sigh, I realised that I really needed to get started on this job, the sooner the better. Tomorrow could have come fast enough.

I reached under my bed where I had shoved a heavy reinforced briefcase. It had cost me most of the money I had saved from my travels. I didn't see it as a waste, though. I saw it as an investment. I fiddled with the padlocks which required that I enter a number code to unlock them, popping open the case and staring almost longingly at the contents.

A build-your-own sniper rifle. This bitch could take down an enemy from half a mile away, and if the terrain allowed it, even further. It required a steady hand, and a quiet mind.

My hands were steady enough, alright, but I wasn't so sure about the mind part. I was working on that.

I began to assemble my weapon, taking my time, waiting out the night. I would exit through my window, and travel by the rooftops, sinking into the shadows as though I were one myself. The shadows were my friends, they were my kin. They were a lover, enveloping me in its longing arms, holding me tight in its embrace.

Two weeks passed me by without event. Each night that I was required I would arrive ten minutes before seven and ask Natasha for a glass of water. She would comply, and after a few days she had learned to do so without my asking. I would take a seat by the bar, right up against the wall and out of the way, my eyes and ears open.

As the second week began to draw to a close, I had to wonder if I was really needed here. The bar wasn't in the roughest part of the slums, by any means, and nor did any of the patrons seem the trouble-making types. I could hardly complain, though; 200 gil a night for sitting on my ass.

In those two weeks I hardly saw my employer either, the woman called Tifa. She remained in her office mostly, passing in and out periodically to perform tasks such as removing excess cash from the register and to bring up boxes of alcohol up from the basement for the girls to restock the shelves and fridges. On busier nights she might emerge from her office to give a hand.

Throughout the week there were six barmaids in total, all of whom would be considered attractive, by today's standards. Natasha the only redhead, Bridget and Emily, two blondes, Amie and Theresa were brunettes and Roxie had somewhat marvellous rainbow locks. She had laughed so hard at my face when I first took in her appearance. Out of all the girls, I liked Roxie best, or rather her brash manner seemed to compliment my somewhat dry sense of humour, but her shifts were fewer and far between compared to the other barmaids.

It was a Wednesday. Not the busiest night by any means. I had been there long enough for the curiosity and intrigue to die away, leaving me alone in my corner nursing my glass of ice water. The door banged open and a troupe of men entered, establishing themselves at a large table on the far side of the bar.

I took in the scene, as I was used to doing. Five men, with at least two of them stretch above 6 feet. I wasn't exactly short, but I didn't stand out. Not for my height, anyway. The other three, though considerably stouter than most, would have outweighed me, and certainly not in muscle. It was a bit rich to walk around with a gut like that, when there were people around these parts who were starving.

More worrying though, from my occupational perspective at least, was that at least two of the men were armed, if I were reading their body language right.

I shifted in my seat a little, something I didn't usually make a habit of. Natasha, who was on shift tonight, seemed to notice. "Something wrong?" She was reaching for something on the shelf nearest to me, at the end of the bar. She spoke quietly, leaning my way ever so slightly. I was somewhat impressed with her choice of discretion.

"Just keep an eye open. They're armed."

"I hear you." She returned to the other side of the bar, bottler in hand, not even risking a glance back at me. I noted she had left a shot of whiskey before me on the countertop. A shot of liquid courage, or perhaps to help me blend in… Well, I wasn't going to let it go to waste.

It burned its way to my stomach.

I was listening in, and listening hard. All my concentration was taken up, occupied by the arrival of these five, possibly dangerous strangers. I barely moved, though in my mind I went through the motions of withdrawing my hidden firearm over and over. If the moment came, I had only one chance. I couldn't mess it up.

One hour passed. The bar was rowdy tonight, and it unsettled me. The girls on shift, Natasha, Roxie and Theresa, the brunette girl were working hard to keep on top of drinks orders. When nights got busy like this, they neglected the usual order of service and took orders direct from tables, delivering them personally. It worked better for tips that way, I was told.

Roxie had taken it upon herself to tend to the group of potentially troublesome men, and so for her sake I kept a good watch on them. It was only a matter of time before things would get out of hand. I had a sense for that sort of thing.

And sure enough, at an hour before midnight, they did.

"Hey, quit it would you guys!" She was laughing, though her raised voice, masked with mock-teasing, was a warning tone to me. Realising that my cover would have to be broken sooner or later, I decided to turn in my seat to get a better view of the situation. One of the men, the shortest one out of the group, had attempted to pull Roxie into his lap. Not the most unusual occurrence to date, and mostly the barmaids could handle that sort of thing themselves. Yet I noticed that no matter how she struggled, he didn't seem to want to let go.

In fact, his fingers, clutching at the hem of her skirt, were leaving purple marks. Her gaze met mine, and I pertained that she was begging me to stay out of it. I had some sort of notion that she had chosen to attend the table for some reason or another; perhaps she'd had run-ins with them before. Yet I had been hired to protect the bar, and that included the innocent, patrons and barmaids alike. My first real call for intervention had arrived.

It only took me a few seconds to cross the bar, yet in that time I seemed to have attracted the attention of all of the patrons. Fantastic. "Please release Roxie, Sir, or I am going to have to ask you to leave."

His fingers loosened enough to let her at last free herself from his grasp, and she stumbled behind me, fingers grasping at my shirt. "Vince, let me handle this." She muttered over my shoulder, her face averted from them. "These guys are my problem."

I ignored her request, giving a gentle push back with my arm. The short man seemed to have lost all interest in Roxie for the time being, though his eyes, almost black in the low light, were now solely fixed upon me. "You think you can tell me what to do, Vamp-guy?" The impromptu insult earned him a laugh from his friends.

"Vamp-guy? That's a new one." I remarked coolly. "I presume we aren't going to have any more trouble."

The chair creaked as he stood slowly, sizing up to me. It wasn't really worth the exercise; I outstretched him easily by half a head, though I supposed that to him I must look like easy pickings. Good. Let him think that. "Trouble? Oh no—That's only going to be the start of it. See here; Roxie owes me. She owes me a lot of money. And I want that money." His black eyes returned to the barmaid, who was still stood within arms reach of me. He reached inside his jacket, removing his hand slowly to reveal a six-inch switch blade. It clicked harshly in the silence.

"Please, Tommy! Don't hurt Vincent he ain't done nothin'! I'll do whatever you want!" The barmaid sounded increasingly desperate at my back, no doubt aware of how dangerous this man could be. I wouldn't be underestimating him, that was for sure.

"We can get you your money," I urged calmly. "All I ask is that you leave the bar."

"I ain't going nowhere. That fucking no-good whore is mine, I can do what the hell I want with her!" He made a mad lurch past me, the stench of alcohol washing over me as he drew nearer. Roxie had started to scream, though not before I braced my shoulder into his chest, and heaved him backward. The action sent shooting pains down my side, though I ignored them for the time being. He fell upon the table with his full weight, the wood splintering. Glass flew everywhere as bottles smashed, and chairs were scraped back as people began to leave the bar hurriedly, clearly not of mind to stay in case it got ugly.

Which is most definitely was going to.

"Roxie, run!" I growled, drawing my gun. Within seconds his friends had armed themselves, though I could tell that their inebriation was taking its toll on their focus. I would have one chance to get this right.

I ducked immediately, knocking down chairs as one of the unarmed tried to pursue me on foot. Disregarding him for a moment, I took aim and fired three times. Bullets ricocheted all around me, though behind my cover of an overturned table, kindling left for me by an eager-to-escape patron, I was left unscathed. All of my three shots hit home, followed by metal clattered to the floor. I had successfully disarmed my opponents, without killing them. Three bullets tore through flesh and bone, rendering their firing arm useless.

"Now please leave the premises. I will not miss, I promise you."

The man called Tommy was furious, though with his right hand in a bloody mess, and his weapon nowhere to be seem amidst the foray of broken glass and fallen furniture, he considered this a battle lost. "I'll find you one day," He growled at Roxie. "Both of you." His venom was directed at last at me, before he stomped out of the door, his men in tow, nursing bloody hands of their own.

My sigh of relief was internal. One of the other barmaids, I think it was Natasha rushed after them to bolt the door. It was only as I turned, satisfied that they weren't coming back, that I realised Tifa was stood by the bar, watching me closely. I noted that everyone besides the staff had left.

"Vincent, please come to my office. You are hurt."

I frowned. I did not recall sustaining a wound. Glancing down at my shirt, slickened with blood, I realised she was right. Ignoring Roxie's spluttering thanks and protests about my actions, I crossed the bar and entered Tifa's office.

She closed the door quietly behind her.

"What was all that about?" Tifa asked me once the door was shut behind us, her words hurried and her tone sounding, if I could interpret it right, a little concerned. I watched her rush around to her desk, scrambling onto her knees underneath it before she re-emerged, triumphant with her first aid kit. "Let me look at those wounds…"

"What? Oh, no. I'm fine. They were behaving inappropriately so I stepped in," I felt like a school boy in front of the headmistress all of a sudden. The image brought with it an unbidden urge to laugh.

Tifa's mouth twitched at the corners. "And then what? You just saw fit to shoot the man?"

"He had a knife."

"Of course… of course." Suddenly she heaved a sigh, reaching up to run both hands through her hair from the scalp. She had such beautiful hair, I realised. Tonight it fell to her waist in delicate waves of chocolate. "You did the right thing, Vincent. I just… those men were Don Corneo's men. They knew Roxie."

I suddenly felt stupid. "She made no mention of it until it was too late."

"Well, perhaps she should have," Suddenly she was angry, sitting down rather heavily on the edge of her desk. "I'm sorry Vincent, I should have really talked to you about this earlier. Roxie is… she is a prostitute. In fact, ah… all of the girls I employ are."

I raised an eyebrow. Well, my first instincts had been right after all. "I am going to assume that there is a reason for that."

"Well, yes," She buried her fingers in her hair at the back of her neck. She seemed agitated. "I had hoped to offer them a chance to earn money in a more… respectable profession, if you can call it that. I wanted to give them a chance to get out, and get away from the city. I guess… I guess you must think I've got my work cut out for me, right?"

"There is method in your madness. I can sympathise with your desire to do good. I must admit, in a world such as ours, that is… a rare find."

"Thank you, Vincent. That's… very kind of you to say so." Her amber eyes considered me gently, and I suddenly noted a rise in my core temperature. I wasn't really used to talking with all these women. "I really should insist on taking a look at that wound," She seemed to suddenly return to the room, shaking herself visibly before slamming the aid box down and rummaging within it.

"I didn't realise. He must have stabbed me, trying to get to Roxie." Deciding against arguing, I lowered myself into the seat that I had taken those few weeks before.

"It was a very brave thing for you to do. Not many men would take a hit for a… for a girl like Roxie." Her tone was soft as she came to kneel by my chair, a glowing green orb in her hand.

"Restore materia? You can use that?"

"Of course," Her lips curved into a smile. "Surprised?" I watched her intently as she raised the hem of my shirt to examine the wound. It was not deep, and the sight of my blood did not seem to phase her.

"A bar maid who hires prostitutes knows how to use materia. What's going to be next?" We both laughed, though she bid me stop, because it only made me bleed more. We fell silent for a time, and I left her to carry out her complex healing. The spell was powerful, and the wound closed neatly. "You are used to dealing with this sort of thing, then?"

"Not nearly as often as you might think, living in the slums," She chuckled, getting to her feet now that her task was complete. "But I've seen enough. I think I might have a spare shirt for you, somewhere. I used to have a male bartender a while back."

She crossed to the far side of her office to a closet, tugging the apparently stiff door open with practised ease to rummage within it. "Ah! This should fit you alright. Its black too, How about that!"

She returned to my side, the shirt hooked on her finger. "I'll leave you in private to change, while I go and see if the girls need any help clearing up. I was planning on staying open for a couple more hours yet."

"You are going to ask Roxie to stay?" I frowned, fumbling with the buttons of my blood-soaked shirt.

"Well I don't think it's a good idea for her to go back just yet. And that goes for you also. I wouldn't send you out there after what's happened tonight." She turned, half way through the door.

"I can escort her back?" I offered, shrugging my upper body out of the shirt.

"I don't think you understand, Vincent," She told me sadly. "Those men will be waiting for her there. Everyday. She works for their boss, and she works for them, if they are paying. There's not really a lot more we can do to help her."

I felt suddenly deflated as I pulled on the clean shirt, enveloped by the fresh scent of unfamiliar detergent. "I have… made things worse, haven't I?"

"I don't know, Vincent. I'm sorry. Perhaps you should ask Roxie about that." She subjected me to one last, loaded gaze before she turned and left her office, leaving me alone within.

_Their meeting was pure chance. In fact, still he does not know exactly who is it he is to be working for. Cloud Strife had spoken of her once or twice. The first time had been on his day of awakening, blinking in the sunlight like a newborn child, confused and conflicted. He had agreed to help Cloud find Sephiroth, as long as they got Hojo along the way. Comrades by definition, and yet they were wary of him always… and quite rightly so._

_She lived here, he said, staring up at the biggest house in the village, his expression relatively blank. Someone, possibly Barret had asked who. Cloud had answered with only her name. Tifa. Where she was now, he either didn't know, or would not say. Dead, Vincent thought instantly. He'd long learned to quash wishful thinking. Good or evil suffered alike in this world. The sooner you learned that, the better._

**A/N: sorry for the weird chapter break there. None of the ones that I used to use to break up the segments work anymore, and seeing as fanfiction took them out, it makes my stories read funny. **

**Well, I had SO many new Favourite story Alerts for this I got totally excited. So PLEASE leave me some feedback newbies, and check out some of my other, older stuff. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	3. Headhunter

_She had come to the city to try and find work, a new start. _

_She could take care of herself, yet her heart had always been soft as butter, as he mentor had chided her time and time again. Hesitate, and in one moment your whole life could be undone. The slums was no place for a sixteen year old girl though, motherless, fatherless. Alone._

_She had taken up the only trade available to her, and not by choice either. It was the only way she could eat, stay someplace with a roof over her head. A roof she shared with other women; some like her, here with no other choice, others that relished their day-to-day work. Don Corneo. He had taken away what little treasure remained within her. She became a ghost; a ghost that hungered for something different, for a better life._

-3. Head Hunter-

After that night at the bar, Roxie didn't come into work for a while, despite Tifa's protests that she stay with her until a solution could be reached. It constantly played on my mind; I had tried to act the hero for once, and it had all blown up in my face. I only hoped that they didn't hurt her anymore, because of me.

Tifa was working on the bar a lot more these days, covering Roxie's usual shifts. She would study me, periodically inquire about meaningless things, as a ruse to draw me into conversation.

I wasn't in the mood.

I continued to ignore her, until one evening, when I was waiting for her to hand over my pay for the shift, she locked her office door.

"Vincent, we need to talk."

"What about?" I watched her circumnavigate her desk, seating herself behind it with a weary sigh.

"You know what," She huffed impatiently. I'm worried about Roxie."

I conceded to my fate of being trapped in here, taking the seat opposite her once again, running a hand over my face. "As am I."

"Do you know who her employers is, Vincent?"

"I don't."

"It's this man." She jerked her thumb behind her, gesturing toward the photograph of the fat, moustachioed man wearing a purple velvet jacket; the very same picture into which I had embedded my knife into, weeks before. It looked like it had been clipped from a newspaper, and it was well worn. "His name is Don Corneo. He runs a brothel in Wall market."

I raised a brow. I'd never seen the man before in my life, though the name I had heard of before. Somewhat of a notorious letch, I believe. "Where Roxie works."

She nodded, and then to my confusion, turned a shade of red. "Um… it is also where I worked, for a time." I said nothing, allowing her to continue. "I first came here when I was sixteen. After a year of trying to earn money, I was told to go to the Don's mansion. I'm not proud of myself for it, but for a girl like me… It seemed there was no other choice."

I felt an unfamiliar burning sensation, heat rising up my neck. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I am telling you this, because… Because I hate the man. With every fibre of my being. And you… You were once, or still are- A Turk. I will pay you a grand sum of money to … give him what he deserved, and bring Roxie backI watched her circumnavigate her desk and crouch before her safe. It was a black, hulking vintage affair with an old fashioned clicker dial and a polished silver handle. After she entered her combination, she produced an envelope, dropping it within my reach upon her desk. I didn't need to pick it up to know that it was stuffed with gil. I estimated into the thousands.

I blinked slowly. "What if she doesn't want to come back?"

"Then just kill him, for the sake of all women-kind." I thought about refusing then, but something in her expression stalled me. Before me sat a woman who had built her life up from nothing, and was doing her best to help others in a way that nobody helped her; A strong, wilful, beautiful girl like her shouldn't have to suffer. Damn, I had always had a weakness for the pretty ones.

"I… I need some time." Her face fell visibly, clearly anticipating my refusal to her terms. Little did she know, I also hated scumbags like the Don. I wasn't going to pass up on a chance to remove yet another leeching parasite from the face of the planet. "-to map out the perimeter. Get a scope of how his ah… Mansion, did you say- is defended."

Her expression brightened instantly, and I cursed myself for being so damn malleable. Had I always been like this? "Thank you, Vincent. I mean it. I know revenge isn't the best medicine. Often it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but-"

"Not always." I remarked, recalling just how good it felt to empty several magazines into Hojo's flailing corpse. That bastard could die a million times over, and I would still enjoy watching, over and over. "Consider it done."

I exited the room, leaving the envelope untouched on the desk. Whether she expected me to take it today, or when the job was done, I didn't know. All I knew was that seeing someone like Corneo die was payment enough for me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I paid her a visit in the day time. Not that there was any fluctuation in the light intensity to suggest what time of day it was. She was surprised to see me, peering through the gap in the door, bound by a rather heavy-duty safety chain.

"Hold on a sec Vincent." I waited politely as she clattered around on the other side of the closed door for a few moments, before she swung the door open wide to admit me. "This is a pleasant surprise!" She stepped aside, gesturing for me to step into her apartment.

It was situated on the first floor, above the bar, accessed by a metal stairwell from the alleyway that ran down the eastern side of the building. A quick appraisal of the place revealed it to be a neat, clean and airy space, painted cream and crammed full of her personal effects. I quickly appraise my surroundings, an old habit, and notice the security alarm console by the door. Every door in this place could be alarmed if need be.

Perhaps I should have given her some notice of my visit, I think, as I watch her shove aside a stack of books with her foot as she walks ahead of me, guiding me into her open kitchen. I notice something smells incredibly appetising, and upon my remark, she insists I stay for dinner. I consider protesting, though looking upon her face I see a woman who is pleased for company. That it must be me, must mean she gets it so infrequently. Before I can formulate a reason why I shouldn't really stay I find myself seated at her counter eating a slice of pie fresh from the oven and talking about the Chocobo racing results like we had known each other for years.

It feels nice; to be this at ease with someone I know so little about, and I almost forget the real reason for my coming. As she clears away my plates, I clear my throat.

"I'm sure you are wondering why I came to see you," I begin, almost wincing at the sight of her shoulders slumping slightly; nothing to do with the added weight of dishes stacked up her arm.

"I did wonder," She admitted, setting the tap running to hot in her sink. Steam bellowed out, condensing on the cool glass of the window above. It is black outside, looking out onto the alley. My watch tells me it is three in the afternoon.

"I have been doing some research. I assure you that our agreement still stands. Only I did not realise that his compound would be so heavily fortified. I had to be cautious. His guards have been… edgy recently."

"You think someone tipped them off?" She asks me over her shoulder, scrubbing fervently at some stubborn mark upon her plate.

"I cannot say for sure. Though I've been keeping an eye on them for several days, memorising the guards shifts, when they change over, that sort of thing."

I notice her smile, and I realise she is impressed. There wasn't any glamour to surveillance though, I thought with a dry chuckle that she addresses with a raised brow. Lying on some grimy rooftop on your stomach, rifle zoom pressed against your eye until your brows begin to ache from constantly squinting through the narrow metal lens. Hours and hours of nothing but snacking whilst at your vantage point… I tell her this and she just laughs.

"Well, it shows your dedication and attention to detail at least. I have faith you will succeed. Any sign of Roxie?"

I shake my head, and she sighs, chewing on her bottom lip fretfully. "You bring her back; I'll give you a bonus."

"About the money… Tifa, I don't want you to pay me."

"But-"

I raised my palm to silence her. "I am already in your employ. Consider this part of my contract."

"You can't be surviving on what I pay you Vincent," I wonder how she is surviving too, and how she managed to accrue enough gil to probably pay my motel bill for a couple of months. I'd been considering the possibilities for hours during my boring stints of spying on Don's mansion.

Something just didn't add up.

My shifts at the bar told me all I needed to know about its income. Hers wasn't exactly a booming trade, and at my calculations Tifa made enough to pay her staff's wages and buy back her stocks, with room for little else. So how had she afforded the building itself? I'd seen enough of the slums to know that Tifa's establishment was one of a kind in its appearance. Clearly a lot of gil had been pumped into it at some stage, to make it look the way it did; refitted inside and out.

I'd also been inside her apartment. She wore clean, simple clothing that looked recently acquired, and her furniture and crockery were of good quality. Not to mention that state of the art security system, and the stash of gil she had locked away in her safe.

So where was she getting her money from?

"I'm doing just fine," I assured her, taking a sip of my coffee. Like her, I had something up my sleeve too.

"Well, good. That's good," Absently, she wiped her sudsy hands on a dishrag before glancing at her watch. "Sorry to rush you, Vincent, but I have some things to take care of before I open up tonight. I'm going to have to say goodbye until your next shift."

"Of course." I wonder what I could do with myself—it is my night off. I suddenly find myself curious, too. What things, exactly? "Don't let me keep you."

I planned on finding out.

_He had not returned to Midgar since his Turk days, when the world atop the plate was a glistening metropolis of swanky bars, exclusive apartments and people in suits. The world beneath the plate was equally something to behold, though for different reasons. Pollution, vices, and makeshift shanty towns all cowered beneath the shadow of the plate above._

_So he supposed it was only justice that the underworld, as those up top called it, had survived the worst of meteor, and the ShinRa headquarters above now stood like a ghostly sentinel in the perpetual dusts, dark, hollow windows gaping. The underworld had survived. All that was bad, and poor about this city has survived. Yet those who lived beneath the shadow of the plate were innocents, when it came to what ShinRa had done. Nobody's crimes could ever compare. _

_Save for his._

-0-

**A/N: Well, its been a while with this one, but I actually have a few good ideas knocking around for this story. I plan on bringing in Cloud & Co. at some point as well, but not in the next few chapters at least. *gasp* Where is going? **

**Please review!**


	4. What We Try to Hide

**Author's note: This chapter has been in my head since starting the story, but getting it onto paper has been a lot harder than I had anticipated. I have some ideas as to where I want it to go from here, so maybe an update can be expected in a month or two. Review and let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Only my imagination.**

_She counts the days through a haze of narcotic-laced cigarette smoke and the cacophony of sighs, moans, and various adulations. Each day is the same; wake up, wash down a meagre breakfast with a whiskey and a cigarette, because it numbs the mind as well as her sense of taste (a blessing), before clustering around vanity mirrors, surrounded by the other girls in various states of scantily-clad dress. It's the start of another day, where she must gaze up at the shaking ceiling with its fake crystal candelabra to make her wishes. There are no starry skies, down here, beneath the plate._

_She applies a little blush to her cleavage, a dust of glitter beneath each eye, and applies a daub of perfume to the back of her neck- its less likely to fade there. She knows all of the ways to please the men who ask for her custom, yet she has never met one who knows hers. All she can think, as she lies on her back, making the necessary sounds to make her clients keep coming, is that there must be a way out._

-4. What we try to hide-

I knew she was up to something. The more I thought about it, the more it didn't seem to add up. I almost talked myself out of following her—she was an ex-prostitute, I had to remind myself. Her intentions may be pure, but her means of acquiring the money might not be. Did I really want to waste my time following her, only to see something I might come to regret seeing?

The justification I gave myself was that I wanted to see anything otherwise- to restore my faith, perhaps. Faith? Was I becoming less pessimistic all of a sudden, here?—here, where all virtue and innocence and all that is good is left by the wayside, sold or stolen, simply to get by in this vast underground dystopia?

Surely not.

It is my night off, and I am crouched on a rooftop adjacent to her bar, squinting down at the murky, befouled streets. I left her apartment an hour or so earlier, and had been maintaining my vigil ever since. If she were to slip out, I would follow her.

I almost missed her—I had rather naively been watching the doors; why would she sneak around, if she were simply practicing a trade that this godforsaken place did not forbid, but rather promoted?—but then a sudden movement caught my eye- out of the obvious glare of the neon signs, I had almost not seen her slipping out from a secret flap built into her roof. She was clad in leather, her hair pulled back and braided neatly and out of her way. I watched with barely contained fascination as she adjusted her utility belt, before leaping effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, traversing the unseen paths of the city silently and with practised ease.

_Where in Odin's name are you going?_

Giving her a slight lead, I then made after her, employing all I knew of stealth to stay well out of her sphere of notice. Mako-enhanced eye sight meant that I could see must better through the dark and pollution than any normal man could.

I followed her over rooftops, down rusting fire escapes and through alley ways pervaded by the stench of rotting matter and human urine. My sense of direction, which was usually completely astute, was rather off the mark—we could have travelled across all 9 sectors of Midgar, for all I knew.

…but I just had to follow her… I had to know.

Perhaps the answer to my burning curiosities wasn't as surprising as it could have been. I watched her scale a building with the agility of a cat and slip in through a hole in the glass window. It was a wonder she didn't cut herself on the shards that still glittered in the frames. Here, in the depths of the slums, no neon lights pervaded the putrid air and darkness. I could hear male laughter, and apparent signs of merriment. So she hadn't been discovered, then.

my training had taught me to know many things, but one that stuck with me, aside from all the combat training, was that people always had something to hide. Whether it be the business man who makes the occasional trade on the black market, or the politician who accepts the odd bribe; a house wife who is having an elicit love affair behind her husband's back- _Everyone_ had something they desperately wanted to keep a secret, and to me that represented only one thing; a weakness he could exploit.

I should know—I had a secret of my own that I kept buried within, the driving force behind my reasoning for coming here, to the slums.

When it came to _her_ however, I had been lost, extensive training in human psychology and interrogation gone to pot in her presence. She couldn't possibly have anything to hide, all pretty smiles and so earnest and enthusiastic with her work. What I couldn't see, or what my blindness prevented me from acknowledging, was that she was like everybody else. She wanted recognition for her work, and at _any_ cost.

I had learned that the hardest way of all.

-0-

I didn't wait around, instead turning back the way I came, this time sticking to street level. Following her had led me into the depths of the sector six slums—I knew my way from here.

As my boots splashed through stagnant puddles and crunched through patches of broken glass glinting in the neon gloom, my mind raced. She didn't want to be seen; a thief, then?—but then what was she stealing, from whom, and for what purpose?

I recalled the thick envelope that he had left upon her desk not so long ago, the very same envelope she had slipped back into my jacket pocket a few nights ago—by what means had she acquired that much money? Was she risking her life and her business for the sake of gil? Or could it be even more sinister than that? Drugs—no, I had never seen her make any dealings, and I had been working tirelessly at the bar for several weeks…

My footsteps carried me right up to her bar, and over the threshold— Natasha was working on the bar and seemed surprised to see me, though by no means displeased. The girls had quite taken to my being here, and had gotten used to my mostly silent ways. The bar seemed relatively empty, save for a few regulars, and I took my usual stool at the end of the bar, where I would normally place myself.

"It's your night off isn't it?" Natasha inquired, jerking her head behind her to the top shelf, where Tifa housed the whiskey collection. At my acquiescing nod, she poured me out a measure. "All pleasure and no business, then?"

"Not quite. Has Tifa… returned?"

"Returned?" The young blonde shot me a quizzical look. "She takes Tuesdays off usually—hang on, I'll call up."

Downing my whiskey in one, I waited for Natasha to call upstairs—could Tifa have beaten me back? Or was she perhaps lying dead and bleeding in that unsavoury-looking warehouse? I had waited for a while, yet hadn't seen her come out the way she got in. There were no signs that the rabble within were aware of her intrusion though… I had thought it best to retreat before I attracted any attention, hanging around near to the scene of the crime.

"She is upstairs, but she says can you wait for—hey!"

I set my glass down with a chink, and stride purposefully out of the building, pivoting on my heel to head down the side alley to the metal fire escape. I scale it easily, coming up on to the roof and locating the panel through which I had watched her exit earlier—It looks like an air vent, though it lifts with some encouragement, revealing a dark loft space within. I lower myself down through the vent, letting it shut after me. It is warm up here in the rafters of the building- it has been well insulated, and could be used as a room, were it populated with furniture. It takes me only a moment to locate the hatch which would undoubtedly lead me into her apartment proper.

I wonder what I am going to say to her—will I outright accuse her? Should I give her a chance to explain herself? I am struck briefly by the notion that I should not face her unarmed—she could be more dangerous than I had previously given her credit for—but I doubt myself. Have I truly become so jaded?

I lift the hatch, and gaze down onto her beige carpeted living space. I pause, listening carefully- I can hear movement from within, creaking floorboards, opening drawers… She is as yet unaware of my presence.

I lower myself through the hatch and down onto the carpet silently, unholstering my handgun and slowly approach what I assume is her bedroom. The door is stood ajar, and though there are no lights turned on, neon glare filters in through the curtains from the street outside. I can see a shape moving within, a form through the crack in the door. Taking one deep breath I step through and turn to face the room, weapon raised, just as she turns and sees me.

To her credit, she doesn't look afraid—probably because she is staring back at me down the barrel of a shotgun. I note briefly that I must have alerted her halfway through her undress; her leather jacket is strewn across her bed, her arms bare and pale in the sickly yellow glow from without.

"You could have waited downstairs." She stated coldly, flexing her trigger finger. "You have ten seconds to explain how you got here, and what the fuck you want."

"I watched you leave through your secret exit—and I followed you to sector 5. I assume that that is the reason for your 'trip'." I jerk my head towards the zipped pack, lying innocently atop her bed sheets.

She keeps her aim steady, though her gaze wanders. I take my chance, kicking upwards and hard. The barrel of the shotgun rises up and strikes her hard in the face, her fingers slipping form the trigger. Her hands rise to meet her face with a howl of pain, and I leap forwards, kicking the weapon into the shadows beneath her bed.

"I want answers, thief."

The look she gave me was murderous. "What're you going to do, Turk, shoot me? I'm not fucking scared of you,"

I chose to ignore her taunt. "What were you doing out there?"

"I was robbing a drug lord." She spat the words at me, arms crossed tightly over her chest, clearly not impressed with her predicament.

"Robbing?"

"Yes," She confirmed acidly, pivoting on her heel to glare out of the window. I kept my gun trained on her back, though as the seconds ticked by, I realised it was a pointless act. I wasn't going to shoot her. "This place survives on the filth that live here- the economy is powered drugs, sex and whatever else you can think of that's foul and corrupted. The way I see it, they make so much money, they won't suffer too badly having their safes emptied now and again. I'm a pretty good safe-cracker—by no means the best, but you'd be surprised at what they leave lying around, in plain sight."

She paused, rubbing at sudden goosebumps that had burst into life on her arms. "They think that hired muscle at the front doors is enough to deter most people—I'm not most people."

"But why? Why risk your life for gil?"

"Vincent…" She sighs heavily, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes sockets. In a momentary pocket of silence I can hear the hum of background noise from the bar- the gentle whir of the glass wash machine, the juddering of pipes, and the ebb and wave of chatter punctuated by chinking glassware. I relax at her apparent submission. Only a little.

"I would have thought a man like you would have seen it all." She lets her palms fall to rest at her sides, her expression weary.

I don't know what to say to that, so instead I remain silent. "I came here at sixteen. I was an orphan with no living relatives, no friends and no money. I came here looking for someone, a knight in shining armour that never really existed…" Her gaze drops to her feet. I am struck by how small she seemed to become, weighed down by the burned-out hopes of a stunted adolescence.

"I had nothing. Or so I thought," She scoffs, and bitterness contorts her otherwise innocent features. "Don Corneo found something that he could sell, in exchange for a place to live. I thought it was a fair deal."

"I imagine that's how he gets all his girls ," I realise I should be out there putting the bullet in his head, like she had asked me to.

She nods sadly. "My virginity was sold to some ShinRa fat cat for a considerable sum, and from that day on, a part of me switched off. I lived like that for three years, scrimping and saving every gil I could. Don wouldn't let a girl go unless she could afford to pay a release fee- For the trouble of having her. I saved more than I needed, because I knew he would up the price. I made a lot of money for him."

I swallow down an ache in my throat, unable to tear my eyes away from her face.

"Anyway, I got out but… other girls aren't so lucky. I do what I do- stealing from the drug barons and the pimps, and the arms dealers- so that girls like me can get free. Sometimes they work here for a while; sometimes they get out of Midgar for good…" A distant smile graces her lips, and I sense her passion and drive. She wants to make a difference—I suppose in that sense she wasn't quite unlike me. "That's what makes it worth the risk."

So she steals money from the drug barons and the whorehouse owners, and uses it to help girls get out of the brothels—a regular Robin Hood, but clad in black leather and operating in the shadows of this rotten and broken city. Immediately I understand her motives. Why would she wish others to suffer through what she had suffered? The extent of her selflessness was staggering. I had not expected to find it here, the cesspool of vice and despair.

"Tifa, I respect you completely for that but… Why do you let _yourself_ suffer down here?"

She sighs heavily, standing and crossing to her window. Her back is to me, and in the silence I contemplate her profile. She was a rare wildflower, starved of light and water, struggling to shine on through the ugliness of this subterranean dystopia. She deserved better than this.

"Because… part of me wonders if the world outside could live up to how I remembered it. I've been in this place since… since before the meteor crisis. What if out there… it's no better than in here?"

I relax my hands, rubbing my thumb over the indentations that the handgun has left in my palm. What had this place done to her? "Tifa…" I step closer, not really sure why but still compelled to do so. "Its… there is so much more than this out there, for you."

"What is it you see in me that I don't?" Our eyes meet, and my heart does a strange gallop and leap in my chest at seeing tears swimming in her eyes of molten honey. The neon lights outside suck her of her colouring. She is pale, sickly; garish in their luminance.

"I…" I have to be able to save someone, I want to say. The same thing that drives her, now drives me. I want to know that she can move forward from this place, even after the hell she had been living every day. Because then… what would that mean for me? "I don't know."

I lie to her, because it is easier. I don't know why I lie, and I almost hate myself for disappointing her. She sighs, the stillness and tension dissipating as she slips into a clean shirt.

"Tifa…"

She stalls in the doorway. We are shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions, still stood in the dark and gloom. It suits us both better this way. "You aren't going to shoot me, anymore, right?" A wry smile twists her mouth, though I do not feel the mirth.

"Tifa I did not…I didn't distrust you. I… I thought… I had _fears_ that your means of gaining funds were… much more sinister than they turned out to be. I feared for your safety."

Something in her body tenses at my words—what did I say wrong?—but then it is gone. She turns to me, her hand on my shoulder.

"I appreciate the concern. But really, you needn't worry. I haven't allowed a man to touch me since my last day in Corneo's hell hole."

A darkness passed over her visage, and I wonder what sordid memories her revelations have brought back to the surface. For a moment, I want to hear everything, as poisonous as it may be—if only to add fuel to the fire. I had already planned on killing him, and very soon.

Very soon.

She is in the kitchen, turning on the lights. The sudden intrusion of brightness causes me to squint, and the night's sordid revelations are cast into stark relief.

"The Don—I have been watching him closely. Tomorrow night I will make my move." I inform her, turning toward the door—no use in leaving through the hatch- but she stalls me.

"You would be doing the world a service."

"I'm not doing it for them." Her eyes go wide, and I press the envelope into her hands—she had tried giving it to me again days ago. She tosses the envelope aside, before throwing her arms around my neck.

"Thank you Vincent…" Her lips are a faint impression on my cheek. "Thank you."

_That last night. She will never forget it. He knows she is to leave his service—all the necessary fees and bribes have been made—she was smart—no money until she is leaving the front door, and even then, only half. The rest, when she was safely at her new rental. She had seen too much down in this place to make such a mistake as give up her money so readily. _

_They had prepared something 'special' for her. No regular customers for her tonight—no, she would be serving her masters, all at once, one last time. When the don forced himself into her mouth, she wished she didn't have a gun pressed to her temple—otherwise, she would have bitten it off. Clean. Off._

_-0-_

_The doctor shook his head, removing his rubber gloves. No way of knowing for certain yet, until the bloods came back. The tears would have to heal on their own; the bruises would fade. The sickness, there were pills he could give her to make it go away, but it would need to be soon. Leave it too late and…_

_No. she could never be so selfish to risk it, when she could be…_

_She would never touch a man again. She couldn't allow her past to steal another's future, a curse trapped within her flesh, given over in the most intimate of joinings._

_She was tainted, spoiled, rotten. Something so cursed should never be allowed to leave the shadow of Midgar._

-0-

Thanks for reading!


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